Again, Tom puffed out his cheeks and, again, blew out a slow breath. He seemed on the verge of saying something, but a motion caught his eye. His brand-new wife was approaching, with people in tow.
Tom was suddenly beaming like a child. Watching that glowing smile, Mike felt his own heart warming.
Hell of a sweet kid, to come from such cruddy parents.
Rita arrived with her usual thermonuclear energy. She started by embracing her new husband in a manner that was wildly inappropriate in a high-school cafeteria—springing onto him and wrapping both legs around his thighs. Wedding dress be damned. A fierce and decidedly unvirginal kiss accompanied the semi-lascivious embrace. Then, bouncing off, she gave Mike a hug which, though it lacked the sexual overtones, was almost as vigorous.
The preliminaries done, Rita spun around and waved forward the two people lagging behind her. Outside of the accompanying grin, the gesture resembled an empress summoning her lackeys.
Sharon was grinning herself. The man next to her wore a more subdued smile. He was a black man somewhere in his fifties, dressed in a very expensive looking suit. The conservative, hand-tailored clothing fit the man perfectly, but seemed at odds with the smile on his face. There was something a bit rakish about that smile, Mike thought. And he suspected, from the man’s poised stance, that the body beneath the suit was far more athletic than its sober cut would suggest.
“Mike, this is Sharon’s father. I want to introduce you.” She reached back, more or less hauled the parent in question to the fore, and moved her hand back and forth vigorously. “My brother, Mike Stearns. Doctor James Nichols. Be very polite, brother of mine. He’s a surgeon. Probably got four or five scalpels tucked away somewhere.”
An instant later she was charging off, hauling Tom and Sharon toward a cluster of people chattering away in a corner of the cafeteria. Mike and Dr. Nichols were left alone.
Mike eyed the stranger, unsure of how to open a conversation. He opted for low humor. “My new brother-in-law’s in for a long night,” he said dryly. “If I know my sister.”
The doctor’s smile widened. The hint of rakishness deepened. “I would say so,” he drawled. “Is she always this energetic?”
Mike shook his head fondly. “Since she was a toddler.”
Having broken the ice, Mike took the time to examine the man next to him more carefully. Within a few seconds, he decided his initial impression was correct. Sharon’s father was a study in contradictions. His skin was very dark, almost pure black. His hair was gray, kinky, cut very short. His features were blunt and rough-looking—the kind of face associated more with a longshoreman than a doctor. Yet he wore his fine clothing with ease, and the two rings on his fingers were simple in design and very tasteful. One was a plain wedding band, the other a subdued pinky ring. His diction was cultured, but the accent came from city streets. Then—
James Nichols was not a big man. No more than five feet, eight inches tall and not particularly stocky. Yet he seemed to exude a certain physical presence. A quick glance at the doctor’s hands confirmed Mike’s guess. The faint scars on those outsized hands had not come from working in the medical profession.
Nichols was returning Mike’s examination with one of his own. There seemed to be a little twinkle in his eyes. Mike guessed that he would like the man, and decided to probe the possibility.
“So, Doc. Did the judge give you a choice? Between the Army and the Marines, I mean.”
Nichols snorted. There was a twinkle in his eyes. “Not hardly! ‘Marines for you, Nichols.’ ”
Mike shook his head. “You poor bastard. He let me pick. Since I wasn’t crazy, I took the Army. I wanted no part of Parris Island.”
Nichols grinned. “Well . . . You were probably just up for assault and battery, I imagine. One brawl too many.” He took Mike’s smile for an answer. His own headshake was rueful. “They couldn’t prove it, since I fumbled the thing like a Laurel and Hardy routine, but the authorities had their dark suspicions. So the judge was hard as stone. ‘Marines, Nichols. I’m sick and tired o’ you. Either that or six years downstate.’ “